Gascony, where fish fetches high prices, or farther on to the Sandy
Isles, with their salty swamps, where they buy the salt for the next
expedition. The crews of lusty fellows stay a few days in the southern,
sun-kissed harbour-towns, intoxicated by the last rays of summer, by the
sweetness of the balmy air, and by the downright jollity of youth.

With the mists of autumn they return home to Paimpol, or to the
scattered huts of the land of Goelo, to remain some time in their
families, in the midst of love, marriages, and births. Very often they
find unseen babies upon their return, waiting for godfathers ere they
can be baptized, for many children are needed to keep up this race of
fishermen, which the Icelandic Moloch devours.



CHAPTER III--THE WOMEN AT HOME

At Paimpol, one fine evening of this same year, upon a Sunday in June,
two women were deeply busy in writing a letter. This took place before
a large open window, with a row of flowerpots on its heavy old granite
sill.

As well as could be seen from their bending over the table, both were
young. Once wore a very large old-fashioned cap; the other quite a small
one, in the new style adopted by the women of Paimpol. They might
have been taken for two loving lasses writing a tender missive to some
handsome Icelander.

The one who dictated--the one with the large head-dress--drew up her
head, wool-gathering. Oh, she was old, very old, notwithstanding her